Category: Mythic poetry
The Verse of Being.
There were four children who wove the wicker of fire that colors every blade of grass, every eye that is. One covered the sky, in her disappearance she sparked secrets that swirled in her silent cauldron And the other, took the form of sea foam, she came and went playfully sprinkling precious salt, sea shells…
The warm fleece upon my shoulders the wings set along my blades the fire sparked within my belly, the lute wrought into my throat all placed by the weaves of her deep tresses her upon whom I wish her upon whom I pray she who thrums through my breast, strikes the skin on my bones…
There is a man with a lute his eyes thread clouds sunsets line his skin, and soil perfume his breath, ever present, ever-awake— He never speaks but through strings he sings a yearning for what has gone and come gone again… like lovers linked in a dance, spinning away till hands stretch to the last filament…